


Joey

by OrionLady



Series: Figlio Mozzato [8]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bomb threat, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Growing Up, Humor, Panic Attacks, Parent-Child Relationship, Protectiveness, Team as Family, all the hugs, change is hard, watching someone you love in harm's way is ALSO super hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Spike—and to a certain extent the whole team—has been dreading and anticipating this day in equal measure for years.Years. Even with the knowledge that it’s supposed to go off without a hiccup, boring as you please.So, of course, today is the day he has to defuse a booby trapped bomb.
Series: Figlio Mozzato [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490165
Comments: 24
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You're probably thinking...wait, isn't this series supposed to be done now? That's what I diddly darn thought too! I finished _Curtain Call_ and went, “oh, how nice. My series tied up in a neat little bow and finally done.” 
> 
> No! NO!! The muse has taken me hostage and demands more stories, so here we are. I heard one (1) particular line of dialogue from Dean Parker in a later episode and this whole thing was born. 
> 
> Bon apetit!

“You’re sure he’ll really come here first?”

Greg takes another serene sip from his mug. “Mhmm.”

“Wow.”

“He’s not taking it well, that’s for sure.”

“It’s today, right?” Marina asks.

“About to kick off in a few minutes, to be exact.”

“Oh boy.”

 _Oh boy_ is right, though neither Marina nor Greg wear even the slightest inkling of this on their faces, especially since it’s not even seven in the morning yet. ****

They’re dressed, but it is a peaceful Thursday breakfast at the table. Marina butters another piece of toast. Greg is engrossed in a newspaper article on the latest drama coming out of City Hall and the administration shuffle it may herald. Steam curls off their matching cups of rooibos tea, shafted by a spritz of March morning light through the patio blinds. It’s easy. It’s benign and normal. ****

Greg even dares to reach over and squeeze his wife’s hand, not looking at her. She, likewise, is reading an email on her phone. They both still spy each other’s smiles.

“Just office work for you?”

Marina nods in response to Greg’s question. “I’m working on the reports from this quarter’s earnings.”

“Bosses upstairs still aren’t satisfied?”

“Are they ever?”

“Tell me about it,” Greg grumbles.

Marina takes her hand away to swat his arm. “You have the most lenient supervisors I’ve ever met! Old Travers lets you come and go willy nilly, whenever you want!”

Greg can’t argue with that, and so he just grins again with an angelic look that Marina doesn’t buy for a second. She snorts, chewing her way through the sourdough slice.

“Nice try, mister,” she says, mouth full.

There’s a ping-pong fast exchange of rumbled laughter, both of their mouths closed but their expressions playful.

Another sound joins the peaceful moment—

The slam of a car door.

“Right on time,” says Greg.

Marina shakes her head, surprised despite being warned of this days ago. Eyebrows up in amazement. She continues to eat her toast. Now she’s muttering about bad mutual fund investments and how high risk is always the way to go.

Greg can picture the scene, and how it will inevitably play out inside, without even glancing away from the paper. He holds up his fingers and ticks them down: “In three…two…”

The door flings open. “Greg! This was a _terrible_ idea!” ****

Greg smiles wider. “One.”

There’s the Tasmanian devil spin of feet, though—not as expected—the intruder doesn’t even take his shoes off at the door like their little family always does.

In fact, Spike doesn’t bother removing his coat or mittens or hat either, despite the fact he’s sweating like a runner in July.

Greg suspects this has little to do with charging into the Parker house sans so much as a knock and more to do with the absolutely _wild_ heartbeat Greg sees pattering away in Spike’s neck, always more visible against his burn scar.

He just blinks for a moment, at a standstill in the kitchen doorway, before he resumes the flurry of motion. ****

The tech’s eyes are huge, blown massive, and his red face is complemented by the frazzle of waved hands and a back and forth around the kitchen that can’t even rightly be called pacing. It’s more like a drunken loop circling the table and back to the fridge. His gaze darts so fast that it’s dizzying just to watch.

Spike has one hand on his toque-covered forehead now. “This is insane. What were we thinking? Huh? How could we be so stupid?”

Greg sips again, calm and fighting to keep that grin from becoming a laugh. “Spike…”

“We’re negligent people!” Spike looks genuinely horrified. “We’re the worst people in the history of people. We should be locked up. Positive role models—that’s what Ed called us—are you kidding me?”

“Spike—”

Spike flaps at his shirt, overheated with stress, and wheezes some more. “This is it. I’ve reached my limit. How could we be responsible for such a heinous crime?”

“It’s not a crime. Quite the opposite, if you think about it.”

“I’m _freaking out_ , paparino.”

Greg gives in, his laugh a sharp retort. “I can see that.”

Marina holds up her half eaten toast while simultaneously typing out an email. Spike grabs it with a garbled thank you on his way by and declaration of greeting, half in Italian and so slurred that Greg can’t totally make it out. After taking off his mittens, Spike wolfs the bread down in three chomping bites and Greg worries for split second if the tech is about to choke.

“How are you not freaking out? That’s the real mystery here.”

“Spike, he’s—”

“He’s gonna _die_ , Greg! I’m going to die!”

“Whoa, whoa.” This, of all things, snaps both Greg and Marina’s heads up. Greg stands and places both hands on Spike’s shoulders. It’s a sneaky way of stopping the frantic cycle, for Greg knows that _Spike_ knows Greg will fall over if Spike keeps moving and the tech would sooner take a bullet than let him drop. It works, and Spike’s feet halt at once so Greg can use him to stay standing. Even still, he buzzes with caged energy. “First off: stop tracking mud across my floors.”

Spike toes off his boots and obediently shoves them onto a rubber mat. “Greg, we—”

“And second of all…nobody is dying today. It’s going to be fine. Can you repeat that with me? Fiiine.”

“ _No_.” Spike pales this time around. Greg knew his boy would see through the obvious tactic but he had to try. “It’s not fine. He’s not ready for this!”

Greg pins him with a canted head, married with a sharp pair of knowing eyes. “You mean _you_ aren’t ready for this.”

“Exactly! They’re both true.”

“Do you not appreciate the irony,” says Greg, “That I was losing my mind over this a few years ago and now you’re the one having a coronary?”

Spike covers his face with his hands and groans into them. “I can’t do it Greg. I just can’t. How did I ever encourage this as a good idea? Does that make it my fault?”

After a generous ten whole seconds, Greg puts an end to the misery party, tugging Spike’s hands down. This puts them mostly at eye level and exposes dark puffs of insomnia under the tech’s eyes, not to mention the jitter in his hands, now shiny with butter and remnants of the toast.

“Hey.” Greg is stable enough, when he’s standing still like this, that he can put one hand on Spike’s cheek instead. “You encouraged him because you love him. That same love is giving you a borderline anxiety attack so take some deep breaths, okay?”

Spike follows these particular instructions better than the first. He sucks in air through his nose and out through his mouth on blatant instinct, the motions every single one of them has practiced a million times for life and death situations on the job, to keep adrenaline responses under control.

Marina watches with fascination, at how smoothly Spike does it, and no small amount of warmth.

Sufficiently calmed, Spike’s brain has caught up. A light bulb goes on in his face, lifted eyebrows and all. “Maybe I can hack the car’s security camera to keep an eye on—”

“Spike, be smart here.”

Spike turns sullen with a pinch around his lips.

Greg pushes further. “What do you think he would want in this situation? Hmm?”

It’s a glaring testament of how worked up Spike is that he actually has to think about the answer to this. Logic says it should be obvious. But love is often not so straightforward, and nothing about what’s happening here is logical.

“He’d want me to trust him,” says Spike, cringing like the words cost him his life savings just to push out of his mouth. “The problem, Greg, is that it isn’t him I don’t trust—it’s everyone else.”

Okay…that one hits a little closer to home.

Greg tactfully leaves out the fact that he himself secretly did background checks on everyone in the building before anything went through. Ed knows, mostly because it was his idea in the first place.

“Aren’t you scared?” Spike asks. His voice is small, plaintive, like the pressure cooker of Spike’s fear suddenly popped a leak and now his steam is hissing out, inch by scalding inch. “Hasn’t it haunted you too?”

It would be very easy to yell, from the rooftops: _Yes! Every single day since this all started, in fact! I barely slept a wink last night either._

But Greg sees something other than just desperate mania in Spike’s eyes. It’s harder to identify, which is surprising enough with the easy-to-read tech that it catches Greg’s attention.

“Do you remember your first day at the SRU?” he asks suddenly.

Spike blinks, thoughts derailed. He huffs a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If I forget _that_ particular day, I either have amnesia or I’m dead.”

Greg’s heart gives a protesting flutter over the words, so glibly spoken—he can’t even imagine a world where’s he’s alive and Spike is no longer with them—but he maintains that cool expression. “And…?”

“Yeah,” Marina pipes up for the first time. “And what happened?”

Glancing between them, Spike flicks his chin in a move picked up from Sam. “And an escaped kangaroo triggered a training camp’s bomb wire.”

Marina splutters on her tea and her eyes bug. She’s spilled it all over her sleeve but she hardly notices, eyes glued on Spike. “A _kangaroo_? Did I just hear that right?”

“From the Toronto Zoo,” says Greg. “It escaped during a routine system reset and then flounced off into the woods. Some soldiers were doing drills in a restricted area and guess where it hopped over to.”

Spike nods, eyes sparking at the memory. “Then, when it got all tangled up in guy wires and threatened to blow us all up, guess who had to defuse a bomb with a marsupial kicking at his head? They tranquilized her, but that hardly helped in time.”

This last part gets lost under Marina’s shocked and delighted giggles. “And it didn’t blow?”

“Of course not.” Spike makes a face. “Those soldiers failed their traps course and I gave them some remedial pointers before we left.”

The image of it all, kangaroo in an angry twist, writhing dangerously close to Spike’s knees and chest while he crouched down to snip the correct sequence of wires, makes Greg laugh too. It’s earned a spot in the SRU legend pool, retold at least once a year all the way down to Academy classes.

Spike shakes himself. “Is there a convenient lesson you intended to bring up with that story?”

Greg shrugs, patting Spike’s cheek. “Why don’t you stay relaxed, go to work, and find out at the end of the day? You’ll catch on, I promise.”

“That’s completely unhelpful. Marina gave me toast, which was much more productive seeing as I didn’t eat breakfast.”

She fist bumps him, still laughing so hard that she can’t type. “Ohhhh.” She wipes her eyes, mascara a write off. “I need pictures. Greg—I need pictures _stat_.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I have a laminated photo set to match Ed’s.”

Greg makes the mistake of showing her a few of those pictures, their rookie kid, hair everywhere, fighting off a kangaroo in the urban woods of Toronto just to disarm a bomb, before they go to work.

They both end up being over half an hour late. When Spike leaves, they’re still doubled over.

* * *

Jules has had this day on her calendar for over three months.

It’s essential. It’s kind of bizarre that this day, imagined in their minds for years, is actually real. She feels a deep sense of pride about it.

Spike feels…well, nervous wreck is generous term.

Spike has been surprisingly hush-hush about his stress levels as it approaches, but there’s no faking it today. She almost wishes there was a call just so they could get out of the barn—and get Spike out of his head. Even Ed is late for work, a monumental fact that’s only been true maybe three times in his whole career.

They’re all in the work out room. Which might help said stress levels if Spike was, you know, actually working out.

He’s on the stationary bike, and his legs stopped moving over five minutes ago. Eyes blinking slow, he stares off at the wall near Leah, where she’s deadlifting. Every few minutes he frowns and murmurs to himself.

Jules sighs and hops off the tread mill. She stops at his side, flicking the messy hair, other hand on her hip. “Spike, you’ve had months, _years_ to prepare for this. It’s just like any other day.”

“But it’s not. I didn’t think it would be this scary,” says Spike in a dreamy, absent voice. “I should be there and I’m not. Is this how you all felt when I was a rookie?”

“Yes.” Jules says it, deadpan, in unison with Peter at the desk and Holleran walking by. A perfect three part chorus.

The phone rings and Peter picks it up while throwing her a droll, conspirator’s look. Oh what an adventure those days had been, for every last one of them.

“And no,” Jules adds. “You’re having far less chill about this than I expected. We were much calmer than you are right now.”

Leah glances over, brow wrinkled. “What’s so special about today?”

Before Jules can answer—and roast Spike to death—Peter stands from the dispatch desk to wave an urgent hand. His eyes are huge, whites of his eyes visible from ten feet away. The landline is muted into his shoulder. “Spike, get over here! The call’s for you!”

Spike darts off the bike, looking as confused as Jules feels. It can’t be a hot call or the siren would be wailing away too.

“Is it Ed?” she asks. “It’s not like him to be a no-show without letting us in on the reason.”

Peter shakes his head. “This isn’t technically our jurisdiction, but…”

Spike wears the vertigo of extreme confusion on his face—

Right up until he puts the phone to his ear. His whole body jolts.

“Whoa, slow down.” Spike holds up a hand as if the person on the other end of the line can see him. “What do you mean, behind a dumpster?”

Jules remembers the first time she ever set a can of shaving cream on an open bonfire. She’d been six years old, and she only did it because she watched her brothers do the exact same thing when their father went inside the house. It had started so slow: the bulging of the can under extreme heat, spider web veins of orange, the sudden bloating of the sides that led to a graceful peeling away until the sparks flew and she’d been forced to dive for cover.

Spike’s face looks a little bit like the can. Okay, a _lot_ like that can, widening and going slack with horror and cracked with molten panic.

“No,” he mutters. “No, no, no, no…”

Then whoever is speaking seems to rattle Spike’s nerves enough that he straightens. “Tell me the time of observation. Yes, this is important! What time did you spot it?”

It’s the tone that gives him away. He only talks like that, with that particular _just so_ tone, to one person in his life.

Jules goes sheet white. “Oh, Spike, no. Is it actually…?”

Spike nods absently.

Swearing, Jules does a spin and rakes her hands through her hair.

“What?” asks Leah, glancing between them. “What’s going on? What’s important about today and why is Spike losing his mind about it?”

Jules finds, oddly, that she can’t answer. She swallows. “It’s…today is finally the day that…”

“Are you hurt?” Spike barks. “Don’t lie to me.”

A pause. Then Spike starts shaking, a purposeful trembling that’s a mixture of fear, utter fury, and determination. “Just hang on—we’re coming. You hear me? We’re on our way!”

“This isn’t our case,” Peter argues.

Spike scoffs while hanging up. “It is now.”

And he reaches right over Peter’s desk to smack the alarm button. It shrills through the SRU lobby and the rest of Team One races off to get geared up. Peter types furiously to start researching…something, whatever the threat du jour seems to be.

Sam, just ending the night shift and looking bleary eyed, pokes his head out of the locker room to frown. He looks startled to see Leah, Jules, and Spike just standing there. “What’s going on?”

Spike is ashen now too. He stares at the three of them with terrified eyes. “Dean and his patrolling officer just found a bomb.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jules is no bomb expert, but even she knows what this means. “Sixty feet isn’t a minimum safe distance, is it?”
> 
> Spike closes his eyes to think for a moment. He makes a frustrated sound, the red draining away from his face. “Not even close. A full city block or two would be better. A bomb this size can take out someone over three hundred feet away.”

It is an established fact at the SRU—Spike is one of only two officers trained in tactical driving, not counting Holleran. The other being Ed, who is mysteriously MIA. Nobody thinks much of this fact, for they rarely use the kind of advanced training required for certain maneuvers.

‘Rarely’ apparently being today.

Spike usually drives the command or ordinance disposal van to a call, trundling along a few blocks behind them, but today he’s off like a rocket. He drives the lead SUV and hardly takes his foot off the gas in the entire fifteen minute drive there.

A drive that _should_ take at least twenty five. 

Jules braces herself on the dash when they fly around a hairpin corner. The tires skid, not that this bothers Spike much. He compensates smoothly with a counter spin of the wheel and they stabilize.

It’s always mesmerizing on the scant few occasions she’s gotten to watch him do this, the difference between her reckless, Vin Diesel blast through the US border two years ago and his maestro sling of the steering column in real time. He’s even talking to himself while he does it, half distracted by worry and irritation.

“This is insane,” he mutters. “My own nightmares can’t compete with it.”

It’s tricky, going at this speed, but Jules uses the laptop to make sure she changes all the lights along their route to red to increase their speed. Spike nods gratefully at her and revs the engine, using the e-brake to lock the tires and therefore clip corners, buttonholing them to avoid the need for reduced speed around a ninety degree angle.

Their rear tires leave black arcs on the pavement.

“He sounded fine on the phone, right?” Jules tries to keep her teammate calm. “Neither he nor Constable Milkos are injured. It’s all good, Spike.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s a bomb call— _on his very_ _first day_!”

“You had a bomb call on your first day. And a kangaroo.”

“That’s different.” Spike looks flustered for the first time, though his driving doesn’t indicate this in the least. He veers around a delivery truck. “That was my first day at the SRU. Not my first day as a cop _ever_.”

Jules prods his shoulder with an incredulous snort. “You were only a ‘typical’ patrol cop for a year before you joined us! You were so green you still had the textbook coming out your ears!”

“It’s not the same thing.” Spike sounds less confident this time.

Jules doesn’t get the opportunity to argue her (completely correct, thank you very much) point further when they squeal up to an alley across from a local theater.

“Have you called Greg?” Spike asks while grabbing his disposal kit.

Jules finishes strapping on her vest and slides out. “Already done. He says he’ll take his lunch break early and come over if he can.”

“If he can?” Spike freezes, crestfallen and stunned. “Isn’t he concerned at all?”

“Of course he is, Spike, but he knows that not only is this a part of the job he’ll have to get used to Dean facing—he also knows that you’ve got his son’s back. Who better to watch over Dean during a bomb call than you?”

This one seems to be the thing that short circuits Spike’s mind. He stands there for a moment, pliers in one hand, bag in the other, and looks much younger than he should.

Then he takes a big breath in through his nose. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

“You and me both,” says Jules, grim. She doesn’t point at out that this may be the first of many such calls.

She watches Spike run over to the two officers in blue, Milkos back near their patrol car, reporting on the radio, and Dean a few feet away from the dumpster.

Jules is about to follow…when she spots Ed leaning against his own car. She stares at him, wondering if he’s an apparition that will poof away the moment she gets too close. Of all the places to find him, this is not where she expected.

Ed has both arms crossed, faint smile on his face. Eyes hidden by sunglasses. She takes her time approaching him, resting both wrists on the hilt of her rifle.

Then she too leans beside him, butt on the hood of his car.

“Hello, Ed.”

“Good morning, Jules.”

“It’s a lovely day and we should be getting cherry blossoms soon.”

“Mmm,” Ed agrees, dancing around the elephant with equal dexterity. “They’re predicting High Park will be particularly nice this spring.”

Jules spares a moment to watch Leah, Leslie, and Thatcher stake out a loose perimeter, even though other officers have already cleared the area and there’s no immediate human threat present. The culprits of this bomb are long gone.

“You got here fast.”

Ed says nothing to Jules’ words, the light and teasing tone. Spike has started up an animated conversation with Dean, badgering the affronted, newly minted officer about any hidden injuries.

“You know.” Jules crosses her ankles. “When I was five years old, on my first day riding the school bus, my dad was so scared that he drove along behind it every day for a week.”

Ed’s mouth quirks higher. “Is that so?”

“Said he was worried about my safety even though he knew it was illogical.”

“I know how that feels.”

Jules bumps his shoulder. “I bet you do, you old worry wart.”

“Did you just call me old?”

The warning tone would make a rookie scared but Jules laughs. “You arrived on scene so fast because you were already here! How long have you been tailing Dean’s first shift?”

Ed shrugs, stalling the inevitable truth. He doesn’t look the least bit sheepish or ashamed. “Since it started. Milkos didn’t even notice that he’s had a pursuer for the last three hours. We’ll have to chat about that.”

Jules snorts. “You big gummy bear. You’re as nervous as the rest of us.”

Ed just hums in reply.

It’s temping to rib him some more for being such a dad about the whole thing, and Jules is about to, when the sound of heated voices grows too loud to be ignored. While other officers race around, coordinating with the buildings on either side to evacuate, Dean and Spike stand at the epicenter of the tornado, both red in the face.

“…Then why won’t you listen to me?” Spike snaps. “You will not stay here while I defuse this bomb.”

“Oh yes, I will.”

“Only one man downrange. That’s the rule, and I know you know it.”

“I’m not leaving, Spike.”

Spike bristles. “Then I’ll have Ed handcuff you to that lamp post.”

Jules immediately reacts to the harsh words, and so does Ed. They zip over wearing open mouths and high brows, Ed already with one hand reached out.

Spike doesn’t get angry often, and when he does it’s a vapour, an illusionist’s special effect to redirect the eye. It was usually used, in the past, to keep people at arm’s length, always lacking any real substance.

However, this fulmination is sheer, old fashioned _ire_ and it’s as rock hard as the ground under Jules’ boots.

Spike seldom, if ever, expresses anger through yelling. Not when it’s been directed so often at him to manipulate and control.

His tone is a brick wall, thrown up right in Dean’s face. The younger man shifts, blue uniform still just a little bit too big on him, like it’s been stretched out by someone else, and Jules is struck again by the image of a child playing dress up. It fits him a lot better than it did at his graduation, though, and he’s bulked up enough in the arms that it doesn’t stand out if you weren’t looking for it.

This doesn’t help much when Spike is still a good head taller and towering over him.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Ed inserts that arm between them. “Everybody cool it. Spike, why haven’t you assessed that bomb yet?”

Spike doesn’t remove his glare from Dean. “Because _someone_ will not follow protocol. I refuse to do any defusion with him standing so close to it.”

There’s a funny twist in the hands at his sides and Jules realizes, with a sudden pierce of sympathy, that Spike is holding himself back from touching Dean. Respecting his little brother by trying to remain professional and not embarrass him here, in front of all these people by hugging him. Heaven knows they humiliated him plenty at his graduation, taking photos and cracking donut jokes.

_Spike is scared._

Jules has no such qualms about professional distance and takes off her glove to set a palm on Spike’s neck. It’s warm compared to the early spring air. She kneads into it with her thumb, taut skin easing the longer she does it.

“Run us through it again,” says Ed, kind but direct like he would with anyone else.

Dean points to the dumpster. “We were helping a homeless lady move her cart when it got stuck. Then Milkos spotted a set of multi-coloured wires sticking out from behind the dumpster, which we slid out carefully to get a better look. It doesn’t have a timer but there are large blocks of C4.”

“And you called us?”

Dean shakes his head. “I contacted the bomb disposal unit first, but they’re defusing a package at a bus terminal over an hour away and I knew they wouldn’t get here in time. So I called Spike.”

Spike sucks in a sharp breath. “Blocks, plural? How many?”

“At least seven.”

Jules is no bomb expert, but even she knows what this means. “Sixty feet isn’t a minimum safe distance, is it?”

Spike closes his eyes to think for a moment. He makes a frustrated sound, the red draining away from his face. “Not even close. A full city block or two would be better. A bomb this size can take out someone over three hundred feet away.”

There’s a quick jilt of motion, Dean turning and shading his eyes to silently count all the people still standing around or being evacuated from the theater and surrounding business offices. His lips move without sound, face falling. Something like awe and something like dread ooze together in his eyes.

“Then I’m definitely not leaving you,” he says.

It strikes Jules that, like Spike, this is a scary first for Dean too.

Not the bomb, though that carries with it lots of unsavoury connotations and memories, but the fact that he’s never seen Spike defuse one in real life before. He’s heard the stories, of course, made funnier by the team’s hamming it up and Aussie jokes—but this isn’t cushioned by fuzzy distance. It feels terrifying, up close and personal, and they’re oh so helpless to do a thing about it.

This is his brother. About to walk over to that dumpster, all by himself, and clip wires attached to a _bomb_. With no guarantee it will work and they’ll ever see him again.

“It gets easier to watch,” Jules reassures him, right at the same time Spike growls, “This is not up for discussion.”

“Of course Dean’s not leaving.” Ed glances between them, one shrewd eye on Dean’s victory fist pump. Ed jabs a thumb over his shoulder to catch the boy’s attention. “Because he’s going to do his job and help with evacuation efforts.”

Dean’s joy deflates at the exact moment Spike restarts his protests. “Ed, no offense, but it isn’t safe for any of you at this distance. You need to be down the street… _way_ down the street.”

It’s almost comical, in that black humour, absurd way their job is sometimes, to see both Dean and Spike firing up to argue with Ed over a very obvious command decision, solely based on trying to keep each other safe.

Dean isn’t overwhelmed or ready to cry. He’s a hen with tousled feathers, psyching himself up to throw down with Ed if it means satisfying his conscience.

Jules loses her own breath for a moment: this is the same boy, freshly twenty-two, who played Mario Kart with Sam just a few nights ago, who annoys Clark while he practices for symphony auditions, who likes to steal Spike’s sneakers just so he can sharpie cartoon doodles on them. The contrast to this hard faced rookie is like seeing stars.

“That’s too bad.” Ed’s voice is clipped. “Because we can’t retreat until all civilians are out of these buildings.”

Spike, knowing from bitter experience when he’s lost the battle, just nods his head to his team leader—unhappily—and walks away towards the dumpster. Not without one last, turmoil-filled look over his shoulder.

Dean follows him with forlorn eyes.

Situation handled, Ed’s posture softens. “Come on, Dean. I’m putting you and Milkos in charge of the theater’s first floor lobby. See if you can speed their evacuation efforts along.”

Dean nods, walking side by side with them, but he’s still watching Spike fade away in the distance. “He could die.”

Jules and Ed exchange a quick look. They’re far too experienced and they love him too much to offer false reassurances.

“Yes,” she says, slowly. “He could. But there’s no one better trained, Dean. Spike knows what he’s doing and we get calls like this all the time.”

The information does not seem to comfort Dean. His eyes are on them now, these seasoned officers on either side who make up a slice of his family. Who have embraced him and played pick up soccer and given him noogies. “You guys let him go out every day, knowing he may not come back.”

It’s not an accusation, more an amazed observation, peppered with devastation. There’s something else in there, something much sharper, like a piece of metal impaled inside the fleshy wall of his heart.

Jules recognizes it at the same time Ed does. She draws in a quick, alarmed breath and grabs at Dean’s bicep to stop his determined steps. So does Ed, stepping in front of them both.

Ed, in an unintentional mirror of Spike, resists touching at the last second. His hand stays hovering somewhere on the periphery of the boy’s personal space bubble. “Dean Parker—even if something does happen, you are not responsible for it. You hear me?”

Dean blinks at him, a touch fearfully. “I called him. I brought him closer to this.”

“It is _not your fault_.” Jules punctuates her words with a light shove to his arm. “And I know for a fact that Spike doesn’t blame you either.”

This actually pacifies Dean a hair, his stance relaxing. He nods when Milkos waves him over. “We put the public’s safety first, right?”

There’s well hidden conflict over these words in Dean’s eyes and in that moment, Jules hates them too.

She clears her throat and forces her grip on his arm to go slack. “You got it.”

Then Dean manages a tiny grin that is clearly fake and clearly for their benefit. “Just a normal day, right?”

 _No._ This sentiment reads on Ed’s face too. _Not even remotely._

What the man says instead is, “You bet! Good luck.”

“Let me know if anything changes. Just keep me posted, please.”

“Of course, Dean.” Jules squeezes his bicep once and then steps back.

Once he jogs out of earshot, Jules casts Ed a dry look. “If this is a normal day, I’ll die before I reach forty.”

Ed starts to smile. The moment of levity is broken, however, when Spike’s voice filters through in their ears over all the police chatter—

“ _Uh…guys? I think this C4 is booby trapped._ ”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and I will never get to safety in the five minutes it takes to pack up and walk the block.” Hands clenching into fists, Dean’s voice lowers. “You promised me, after I almost lost you last time. You _promised_.”
> 
> Spike’s hands are shaking. They never shake on bomb calls, not once in a decade of working with this team.
> 
> Was there really a time when he’d locked his heart up so tight that he could separate his love from his brain? How had his heart and his head been rivals? His love caged away where no one could hurt it anymore?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite having so many electrical/chemical engineer friends, I cannot stress enough how little I know about bombs, so please enjoy this Three Stooges level of incompetence in writing about them!

Defusing a bomb is much like gardening, an instructor once explained all those years ago. Especially tending a bonsai tree. It requires pruning and clipping and the understanding of which shoots are vital and which are dead, unimportant things to be discarded. Supple, fine motor skill movements are intended to test your concentration and Zen patience.

Or lack thereof.

Today is a lack thereof day.

“Guys?” Spike relays his findings again, thankful for his kneepads so the wet pavement doesn’t soak through their thin cotton fabric. He takes off his wedding ring and tucks it safely in his pocket, just like he always does before any defusion tactics or anything he can’t wear his gloves for, so it doesn’t get scratched. “I’ve got trip wires and some sort of plating underneath here.”

The stunned silence doesn’t last long. Jules is the first to pipe up, sounding breathless even though he’s the one crouched at an awkward angle on the filthy ground. “ _Is it possible to neutralize those before working on the C4?_ ”

Spike tilts his head back and forth in a thinking motion while shining his penlight into the mess of circuitry. He shoves a few takeout containers away from the device. “The trip wires, yes. I’m not so sure about the plate.”

He intends to say more, but has to stop and swallow a few times. Even after all these years, the memories surrounding that one trigger plate hound at him. Instinctively, his eyes whip to the slew of SUVs and police cars moving farther away. He can’t even see Jules or Ed at this angle in the alley.

That means he can’t see Dean either, even if he wanted to.

And he does, desperately.

“Is Dean out of range?”

“ _Yes, Spike._ ” Ed sounds affectionately exasperated. “ _He’s in the building across the street from you._ ”

 _Not far enough_ , Spike frets. _He’ll die or be permanently injured if this goes off and they know it._

The fact they are sort of lying to Spike to make him feel better sends a cactus prickle all the way down his back. He shakes himself to get rid of images of Lew and focus on the scene in front of him.

“It’s gang related, at least we know that.”

“ _How can you tell?_ ” Ed asks.

“The C4 is stacked neatly, against the wall. Someone spray painted over it with the Velasquez cartel trademark.”

“ _The bull with a claw around its neck?_ ”

“Yep.”

“ _Good work, Spike. I’ll relay that to Guns ‘n Gangs. They’ll be thrilled._ ”

Spike chuckles. “They sure will. Wordy’s team has been tailing these new players for months, and this is the first turf war blow against a rival gang.”

“ _That tracks_.” Ed sounds like he’s talking with someone else at a slight distance. “ _Intel suggests that apparently this dumpster is often a drop spot for our old friends the Montegos_.”

Spike thinks of Ethan and grins despite himself, a shaky one. “Of course it is.”

“ _It’s days like these_ ,” Jules gripes, “ _that I’m jealous of Wordy. I wish I worked from home too._ ”

“I second that,” says Spike under his breath, gently snipping the two trip wires while applying pressure to the sensor. “Trippers defused. Beginning plate assessment now.”

Jules makes a worried sound, between clenched teeth. “ _Was Dean right? There’s no timer?_ ”

“No, thankfully. It’s motion activated. All it would take is someone knocking on this wall too loudly or bumping the dumpster with their hip.”

“ _It’s a miracle Dean and Milkos didn’t set it off_.”

Spike grits his teeth, heart skipping at that reminder. “It probably didn’t go off because the dumpster was shielding the plate from debris without touching it—but it’s exposed now. I’ll see what I can do to at least get rid of the motion sensitivity. Stand by.”

Barked orders from Ed, to stay sharp and watch for any shooters or gang members coming back to watch their handiwork, kibitz over the line but Spike tunes out all of the collateral noise to circle the device again. It’s a beast, with wires for teeth and touchy ordinance for entrails. Spike pokes some more at the plate’s cleverly disguised lines, where they lead to the C4 blocks. They appear as dummy wires but Spike knows better from experience, the kind of coiling needed for this type of current.

“The problem,” Spike mutters to himself, “is that if I cut the plate wires, it’s a feedback loop with the C4. They trigger each other. I’d have to cut all four trigger wires at the same time, both sides of the circle…”

Spike’s stomach does a snake ripple and then bottoms out. If Lew were here, he’d have helped in that fluid way they always had, from day one.

This is much worse than a normal plate bomb because this one is specifically designed to need four hands to defuse. It is the perfect ambush even if an unsuspecting expert happens to stumble upon it and, even more unlikely, knows what to do—because it’s not meant for one man down range.

The perfect trap.

Agitated, frustrated with himself and the reality of what’s happening, Spike wipes his nose and is startled to feel how much he’s sweating. It stings at his eyelids when he blinks fast and uneven. His shirt collar is two shades darker, even with the stiff spring breeze.

“I can’t do this.” Spike admits defeat as he says it, knowing his only option is to get them all far away, to run. “We’re going to have to let it blow.”

“You look like you could use a hand.”

Spike’s head whips up. With the liquid blurring his eyes, it takes a second for him to wipe it away and see a blue figure creeping towards him.

“Dean!” Spike shoots to his feet. The boy has circled around from the other end of the alley, hands up and already prepared for an argument. “You’re supposed to be over there! The key point being _far away_!”

Dean shakes his head when Spike points to the theater on the alley’s other side. “All the civilians are out, Spike. Milkos was basically finished when I got there and I heard…uh…I heard you muttering on channel two.”

Spike glances at the transponder on his hip then at the one on Dean’s. He squints. “Your radios aren’t programmed to pick up SRU frequencies.”

Dean has the grace to blush, a little. “Maybe I’ve learned a thing or two from hanging around you. Don’t tell Milkos that I altered my radio.”

It’s supposed to be funny, probably a subtle jab at Spike’s blatant geekiness, but it makes Spike gasp. A further reminder of the fact that Dean is standing barely ten feet away from a _bomb_ and it’s Spike’s fault, for encouraging him to the front lines like this. For being a bad example.

Dean should have an office job, maybe a lawyer like Greg suggested in the very beginning. He should be a civilian in one of these buildings, innocent and evacuated along with all the rest, that beautiful ignorance they all secretly long for on bad days.

“I’m sorry,” Spike breathes out, and it makes no sense. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

Dean sobers. He dares to come a few steps closer.

“Spike—”

“No!” Something primal, feral, desperate, overtakes Spike’s mind. He reaches down and grabs the first thing his hand touches, an empty soda can near his boot. Dean’s eyes widen and he ducks, even though he doesn’t need to. It clatters off the wall by his cheek. Spike makes sure his throw misses but he hopes it will scare the boy away. “Get back!”

“Spike, you need help.”

“Stay back!” Spike roars again. “You’re breaking protocol! You know better!”

Dean sets his jaw. “People are going to die if we don’t defuse this bomb.”

“You just said all of the buildings are evacuated!”

Dean stares at Spike like he’s just turned blue. His lips go a tad wobbly. “I mean _you_ , Spike. You’ll die.”

“No, I won’t!” Spike rummages around for another can and finds a rock instead. He hurls it with all his might. This time Dean doesn’t even flinch, watching it strike the opposite wall near his shoulder. “I’ll be long gone by the time it detonates!”

“Can you be sure?”

Spike has no idea why Dean is pushing, his vision tunneling and more panicked than he’s been in a long, long time. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s a lot of trash in this alley.” Dean gestures to debris being blown around by the windy day. “If even one of these things rolled onto the exposed lip of the plate, would it blow up?”

Spike splutters and then goes quiet. His heart is a thunderclap in the thick recesses of his throat.

His voice comes out fragile, nearly muted. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

“Would you be safe by that point? So far you’ve been keeping the plate clear, right? Brushing garbage away when it gets too close?”

Spike is utterly still for a moment longer, eyes roving over the bomb. “No.”

“What…?”

“No.” Spike looks at him. “No, I wouldn’t be safe. But that doesn’t matter—you need to _go_. Right now.”

Dean shuffles his weight from one foot to the other in a fidgety dance. Suddenly, his eyes harden. “You can’t make me.”

The words, to the untrained ear, sound petulant, a child’s denial. They are short and unwavering, so stony that they create static charge in the already crackling air.

When Spike hears them, his spine snaps straight. He wants to shout at his little brother in equally childish tones— _“Yes I CAN!”_ —but he knows it’s not true. If he steps away now, they’re both dead.

Even at this moment, Spike catches himself unconsciously toeing away garbage and bottles from the plate. One touch, a single nudge of a beer can, and it’s all over.

If he steps away now, he’s essentially killing Dean himself.

That can’t be allowed to happen.

Dean, eyes hardly blinking and locked onto Spike, nods when he sees the realization flash across Spike’s face.

“You and I will never get to safety in the five minutes it takes to pack up and walk the block.” Hands clenching into fists, Dean’s voice lowers. “You promised me, after I almost lost you last time. You _promised_.”

Spike’s hands are shaking. They never shake on bomb calls, not once in a decade of working with this team.

Was there really a time when he’d locked his heart up so tight that he could separate his love from his brain? How had his heart and his head been rivals? His love caged away where no one could hurt it anymore?

Now, Spike shares a moment of intense eye contact with Dean, one which he hopes sears all of that love and anger and fighting to _live_ straight into the bright light that is Dean Parker’s soul. If they don’t make it out, he wants this boy to know how much he matters. How he’s the most important little brother in the whole world and Spike could never have asked for a better family.

Dean just nods again.

“I’m not abandoning you, Dean.”

“I know.” He sniffs. “Because I’m not going to let you.”

“Alright.” Spike feels like he’s aged twenty years with that one look. “Alright. I hate this, but let’s do it.”

Dean crosses whatever invisible line held him back and rushes to Spike’s side. They both kneel and Spike keeps an arm out while he does so, barring Dean from touching anything. Now that he’s had his way, however, the boy is compliant.

Spike puts his hand over his mouth until it stops shaking. “Okay…yeah, okay. We can do this.”

Dean is warm against his side, also sweaty from the stress of this situation.

“ _Spike, you good?_ ” Ed pipes up for the first time in a few minutes, and Spike jumps, realizing they’ve been able to hear at least a sliver of what’s going on. “ _Did I just hear that right? Dean is with you?_ ”

Spike glances at his unexpected helper. “Will it get him fired if I say yes?”

“ _I think he has worse problems than his job right now_.”

Spike quirks his head. “Touché.”

“ _We’ll take his place if you need an extra pair of hands_ ,” Jules offers.

“No!” Spike can’t stand the thought of more people dying if this goes wrong. “Just…just let us figure it out.”

Dean watches this one sided half of the conversation play out. Spike wipes more sweat out of his eyes, panting.

Ed audibly thinks this over, then simply says, “ _We’re standing by. Let us know if you need assistance._ ”

“Will do.” Spike nods and indulges himself with a quick palm to Dean’s hair. It doesn’t ruffle or play shove. He just rests it there, hoping it doesn’t start trembling again. “Here we go, Dean. See these two black cables, one on either side?”

Dean nods. “What are they?”

“Relay wires. If someone touches the plate, that’s what sets off the C4. Now, we’ve also got a blue and green wire on either side.”

“Oh, I studied this! They’ve got something to do with motion detection, attached to that circuit on top.”

Spike wags his hand back and forth. “Close enough. It’s pretty straightforward—our pliers will have to cut two wires at once, me the black and blue ones, you the black and green ones on the right.”

Dean stills. He cranes his neck to peer around the device and Spike’s heart gives a leap— _too close_. He tugs Dean back.

“Timing is important, Spike, isn’t it?”

Spike tries to pretend it’s just an ordinary day, chatting with Jules in his ear while defusing an easy bomb. He keeps his tone light and hopes it passes off as real. “Exactly. We have to cut all four at precisely the same instant. If even one is too thick to cut and doesn’t sever cleanly, well…”

“Yeah.” Dean nudges Spike with his shoulder. “I get the idea. So, a set of pliers in each hand?”

Spike roots around in his duffel for two more pairs, handing them to Dean. “I hope you’re as fluid with your left hand as you are with your right. Normally I’d cut two wires in one set, but the wires are too far apart for that, almost an arm’s length. Someone designed it to need four hands, impossible to defuse.”

“Unless you have a handy brother on scene.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spike suppresses a shudder. “Don’t remind me.”

Dean dutifully positions himself how Spike demonstrates, elbows braced on his crouched knees for stability, pliers hovering but not touching their two target wires each. Even with Lew, Spike didn’t feel this keening surge of adrenaline, the relentless onslaught of sheer, blank terror. On that call, he’d had no doubt they would get Lew off, however misguided.

Now…now Spike has a mental video reel of just how badly this can go. The statistics are not in their favour.

He loathes that, suddenly, all the mental storage he has, his brain firing at double speed to process just how _not successful_ probability states this will end up. Bombs like this don’t get defused. Ever. They get safely blown up with any human impact out of range.

But they can’t. It’s a death sentence to walk away.

“Like this, Spike?”

Spike drinks in the earnest cast of Dean’s eyes, his trusting smile, like this is an adventure and he’s along for the ride. Spike’s knees go suddenly weak. He can’t do it, he can’t lead this beautiful boy like a sheep for culling, cut down before he can flourish.

“Spike?”

“Yeah, buddy.” Spike runs a wrist across his flushed cheek, with his hands full. “That’s perfect, good job. You’re doing awesome and I’m glad you’re staying so calm.”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “I’m with you, so it’s all good.”

Spike nearly falls over at these words. The shaking starts up in his hands again and he tenses to still it. He will not be the weak link that incinerates them both.

“Boss?”

“ _I’m here, Mike._ ”

Spike eyes Dean, trying to say what he needs to say without scaring the young man. “Ed, we’re…we’re about to start.”

A short silence.

“ _You know what you’re doing?_ ”

It’s not a question of his skill set or intellect. Spike hears what Ed is really asking because it’s the same question that’s been screaming through his brain for the last ten minutes.

“It’s our best option, Ed. Whatever happens, I…thanks.”

“ _Just like taking a walk in the garden._ ”

Spike lets out a huff of air, lips flipping up. It’s a saying he and Lew coined, at first to make fun of their old professor, and then to remind themselves to stay composed in life and death situations. He hasn’t said it since Lew died.

“That’s right.” Spike gazes at Dean, still distantly shocked that this day went so horribly down the drain. “Just like taking a stroll through the garden. Hear that, Dean? There’s nothing to it.”

“You make it look easy,” the boy reasoned, “So it has to be.”

Spike rolls his eyes at the feeble attempt to ease his fear. “You ready?”

“As ever.” Dean nods while readying his pliers, one set around each wire. “Love you, man.”

“Love you too, you reckless gremlin. Here we go: in three…two…ONE!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a hint of rosiness high up on Spike’s cheeks, and Greg’s heart soars to see it.
> 
> The tech sniffs. “You figured it out, huh?”
> 
> “Didn’t I promise you that story would make sense by the end of today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost split this chapter into two, because it's so much longer than usual. But I thought, hey, the more the merrier! :D Thanks for reading this crazy brainchild of my 3 am musings - it's been fun.

‘And love will hold us together,  
Make us a shelter to weather the storm—  
And I’ll be my brother’s keeper  
So the whole world will know that we’re not alone.  
  
This is the first day of the rest of your life,  
‘Cause even in the dark  
You can still see the light,  
It’s gonna be alright, it’s gonna be alright.’

“Hold Us Together” ~ Matt Maher

Greg doesn’t even bother parking his car properly. He just rears up to the nearest police cruiser, at a crooked angle, and turns it off. One tire has hopped the curb, but in the chaos of police swarming around, nobody notices.

There isn’t even any need to flash his badge at the yellow crime scene boundary. A young officer takes one glance at his cane and lifts the tape without a word.

Another looks taken aback to see a plain clothed man limping through the deserted block until he puts it together. “Dean Parker’s father?”

“You got it.”

“He’s working on defusion at the moment but SRU is on scene.”

Greg is shot dumb by that one. “ _Excuse_ me? Defusion?”

But the patrolling officer is already gone, scurrying off with a clipboard to do headcounts. The bomb disposal van has long since found a home amidst Team One, five people standing there looking troubled, but no sign of Spike.

Greg leans against the car next to Eddie, who appears much, much more relaxed than Greg feels. Some part of him is a klaxon, shrilling with a father’s offence, and another part of him finds this all par for the course. So predictable he should have seen it coming years ago. Sacrificial tendencies seem to run in the family.

“A plated dumpster bomb, huh?”

Ed nods. His aviators are off, so Greg can get a read on the accordion folds near his eyes. He’s worried too, just pretending better.

“And somehow my son found a way to get as close to it as possible. Go figure.”

Ed’s smile grows. “They both did.”

“Does this ever get easier? Watching your kids do stupid things?”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Ed, with a lilt in his tone that Greg can read after years of friendship. He’s trying not to laugh. “My daughter eats playdough and my son’s biggest danger is getting clocked by an end pin.”

“Very funny.”

“Orchestral safety is nothing to joke about.”

Greg ribs Ed and the man shows his teeth, just for a flash of almost-laughter.

“You owe me ten bucks, by the way.”

Greg gasps, scandalized. “I do not! Dean didn’t find trouble on his first day—it found him!”

“Nah-ah.” Ed uncrosses his arms to slide one around Greg and jostle him. “That wasn’t the bet. The bet was that your ankle biter would have just as eventful of a first day as Spike did, and voila, Sergeant. _Eventful_.”

Ed spreads out an arm like he’s a game show host gesturing to a grand prize and Greg grumbles that he’ll buy Ed breakfast sometime in repayment.

“Deal.”

“Thank you, by the way.”

Ed’s gaze retreats, a little shifty. “For what?”

Greg shakes his head, his own smile starting to show. “You know what. I didn’t ask you to, but since I couldn’t do it, I’m glad someone did.”

“Should we tell Dean?”

“…Not until he’s forty.”

“Sounds fair.”

A flutter starts up in Greg’s chest, that inexplicable tugging. “Are we safe at this distance?”

“Not really, but—”

_TH-BOOM!_

Everyone on scene visibly _jumps_ and Greg feels like his heart separates from his body for a hot second. The sound is a thunderclap, resonating for a long time, but not nearly as deafening as it should be, not the ears-chiming explosion they’ve all experienced before.

Where is the smoke? The snowfall of fragile ash and the _thunk-ther-thunk_ of rocks and rubble around their heads?

Greg shades his eyes, searching for it, his knees trembling.

They cannot have just lost both boys in one fell swoop—his panic reaches a zenith that whites out his vision. Spike’s fretting of this morning doesn’t hold a candle to the manic frenzy that creates jangling rhythms through Greg’s stomach.

“Status! _Spike, STATUS!_ ” Greg says it in perfect stereo with Ed before he can catch himself, Ed so rigid he could be mistaken for a telephone pole.

Ed listens to some response in his ear and then closes his eyes, suddenly boneless. He has to bend over his knees for a moment, panting hard. “Can you repeat that, Spike?”

Taking out his earpiece, he stands close to Greg so they can both hear:

“ _Sorry for the scare! Dean insisted on cleaning up the alley before we go and that sound was the dumpster’s double lid falling shut._ ”

Ed glares at Greg, lacking any real heat. “You raised a boy scout, you know that? One who lives to give me heart attacks.”

Spike laughs in their ears and Greg runs a hand down his face. His pulse takes a long, long time to slow down. He and Ed clutch at each other’s arms, remembering with difficulty how to breathe.

“ _Package defused, Ed._ ”

“Good work, Spike.” Ed straightens, slipping his headset back in, and waves Leah over. “Do we have bomb disposal ready to go?”

“Standing by,” she says, checking her watch. “They’ll safely take care of the C4. Hey, boss!”

Greg waves his own greeting. “Good to see you. Are they injured?”

“Oh no, not at all, though I can hear Spike chewing Dean out.” Leah taps her earpiece before darting off.

“Beat me to it,” Greg mumbles.

Ed moves to go back to work, but he grasps Greg’s shoulder before leaving. “If it makes you feel any better, Spike had a paroxysm when Dean showed up.”

Greg lets out his own laugh, still breathless. “Business as usual, then.”

Ed winks and salutes. “Another day in paradise, _boss_.”

“Did you just taunt a traumatized father at a crime scene?”

“Oh please. The rule book doesn’t apply to you and it never has.”

“That’s rich coming from the man who _let_ said rookie defuse a bomb.”

“What’s that?” Ed puts a hand to his ear while retreating. “I can’t hear you!”

Greg just shakes his head and pokes Ed’s back with his cane. His friend’s snickering fades down the street.

Alone for a moment of reprieve, Greg gets his steeple chase heartbeat back to a normal rhythm with a quick pace from one end of the car to the other. Shallow breaths deepen after a moment. His instinctive, paternal side wants to be absolutely justified that this career choice was a bad one for Dean, that this should put an end to it all.

It’s not an entirely irrational thought. But most of all, reigning supreme these last few weeks, Greg just feels…

Pride.

His boys saved countless lives today, together, side by side and using all that Greg and other leaders have taught them. They’re both doing what they were meant to.

How can Greg fault that?

The feeling only rings louder when Spike and Dean materialize suddenly when they turn the corner out of some alley far up the next block. They’re little specks on the horizon and Greg’s chest gives a swoop at just the ant-sized sight of them. Wind runs its irreverent fingers through Dean’s almost grown out curls and the crest like waves on top of Spike’s head. Noonday sun alights on the crown of their heads, turning them russet and honey brown, respectively.

They’re mussed up and sweaty and the most dazzling sight Greg’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes on.

They’re also still arguing.

Spike takes one hand off the duffel strap slung over his shoulder to make a downward slash with his arm. The pair are still too far away to hear anything they’re saying. This doesn’t stop Greg from laughing at every over the top gesture and every mutinous scowl from Dean.

For it’s all play acting—even clearer than their indignation with each other is their relief. Dean also has one hand on the duffel between their bodies, the only reason for this being that he can subtly keep a hold of Spike’s quivering wrist and Spike keeps tapping Dean’s chest for emphasis, solely so he can feel the healthy pulse against his skin.

Then reality catches up.

Spike is _shaking_.

Greg waits with impatience for the pair to close the gap. Spike stops to have a quick word with the team while Dean bounds over, shocked to see him. He freezes dead in his tracks.

“Dad, what are you doing here? Did they call you just for this?”

Greg does a quick scan with practiced eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I asked you first.”

“You really are fine,” Greg says, going for wry and just ending up sounding like every other thankful parent in the immediate vicinity. “Levels of sass still in tact. Check.”

Then he opens his arms and Dean’s eyes go huge, cheeks scarlet. “Dad! You can’t hug me while I’m working!”

Greg totally can, in fact, and he does so right there on the empty street. Dean weakly fights him, then melts into it. He smells of crisp outdoor air, body strong and healthy and _alive_ under Greg’s hands. The scare of minutes earlier fades with his son in his arms, something Greg has never taken for granted since Dean came back into his life. 

It’s a quick hug, but Greg gives him a pat against his sternum when they part and Dean nods, understanding what it means.

“Of course they called me,” says Greg, hoarse. “You’re my son and I don’t care what the circumstances are when a bomb is involved.”

Dean opens his mouth for what looks to be another sharp quip…when he calms and looks back at Spike. His eyes are studying a white strip along Spike’s scalp, visible now that the wind has peeled back his hair just right, just enough to see the scar in its full, awful glory.

Something about the sight seems to puzzle Dean, or at the very least stay his tongue. Greg waits him out.

Finally, Dean turns to ask his father a question with his eyes as well as his mouth. “I’ve never seen Spike so scared as he was today. Was it because it was my first day? Does he not trust me?”

This doesn’t happen often, and less so now that his job is so routine, but Greg finds himself lost for words. He eyes one son, then the other.

“Because he’s had way worse calls than this,” Dean goes on. “And he was resigned—unhappy, but resigned—when he left to defuse the bomb by himself and I went to the theater.”

Greg can’t even begin to explain the depth of what it all means, how legacy and love can be a two edged sword sometimes.

Dean puts both hands on his hips and takes in the whole scene. “This is either the best first day ever or the _worst_ first day ever. At least no guys in my unit can call me green anymore.”

The utter guilelessness of that statement, youthful and energy infused, releases the tension inside Greg. Dean sees this as an experience to retell over drinks, some of that innocence still intact without gory experience to temper it.

It is in this floundering moment that Spike comes over and rescues Greg by answering for him. His eyes are tender on Dean now. “You have to bear in mind that today was my first day too.”

Dean grows even more bewildered. “But I did my practicum just last summer. This is exactly like that, only I’m being paid this time. I’ve been shot at! What’s the big deal?”

Spike shakes his head. “It just is, little man. Now we’re not here every day, to debrief after calls. This is my first day letting you go, trusting that we’ve done enough to prepare you. It’s not you we’re worried about, Dean—it’s _us_ , that we’ve failed in your training or that you’ll encounter something too big to handle.”

Greg finds his voice at last. “You did the right thing, though, son. You called for help and that’s exactly what we would have done in this situation. We’re proud, so proud.”

Dean stares at them both, as if to check they’re not babying him.

Spike is still insipid, but he grins. “A cat stuck up a tree still would have made me nervous, Dean, not because you’re a newbie. You could be the most hardened, battle experienced person in the world and I’d still have thrown that can at you to keep you away.”

“Really?”

“Yes: because it’s _you_.”

The gravity of it, this harrowing scenario where they were both seconds away from dying, hits Dean in real time and he wrestles back something brittle. “That fear for each other isn’t going to go away…is it?”

“No.” Spike steps forward and this time Dean accepts the hug willingly. His arms are not the most steady, but Dean presses his nose into Spike’s chest and it helps. “Not ever. Even if we’re wizened and bald like Ed.”

Greg smirks. “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“Hey.” Spike pulls back from the hug to narrow his eyes at Greg. “I just defused a bajillion pounds of C4 to keep Ed alive. I’m entitled to a bad joke at his expense.”

The trick works and Dean’s back to a lighter expression, if shaky. “Thank you, Spike.”

“Whatever for?”

Dean’s lips thin. “For being my brother, for letting me help you. And for worrying about me even when you don’t have to.”

Spike goes statue still, gazing at Dean with marble, unreadable eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ll always worry about you, Dean. Because I want to—and because you’re a trouble magnet.”

Greg clears his throat. “Takes one to know one.”

Spike sighs in defeat. He knows when he’s met his match and apparently the combined wit of two Parkers is more than enough. Dean says a reluctant but hasty goodbye and after another hug, he’s gone. They watch him rejoin Milkos where they’ll be taken back to the precinct for statements.

Greg is already planning a blitz dinner at his house, maybe some of that naan pizza Dean liked so much last time, and a night in for them both to unwind from this ordeal.

He’s so lost in thoughts of how to help the team that he almost misses it when Spike lists to one side. Greg jumps and pushes off to grab Spike’s arm.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey.” Greg eases his swaying form onto the hood of Ed’s car. “Easy, Spike.”

The trembling that Spike apparently held back until Dean is out of sight revs full force through his body. He’s a leaf in November, whipped into a fever by the wind. Spike jitters so hard that Greg has to sit down too or fall over. It’s not just his bit drill limbs either, and Greg is worried by the wheezy sound of his breathing.

“I think this is the end,” Spike pants out. “Gonna be the only person in history to die of a heart attack, shock, and asphyxiation all at the same time.”

“You’re not dying, Spike. This is one inch away from a panic attack so slow it down, come on.”

“ _He_ almost died, Greg!”

“But he didn’t,” says Greg, patient and level toned. “Because you were there. Got that? You were there and that made the difference. The bomb disposal squad would never have gotten here in time and my son would be a beloved memory right now. So just breathe.”

This advice doesn’t help in the least and Spike is so distressed that he winces, hand to his bucking chest.

Greg grabs that hand and plants its claw on his own chest, just so Spike can feel the up and down rhythm pumping away. After a few nerve zapping minutes, it starts to take effect and Spike mimics the exaggerated breaths.

Then he coughs.

Greg pales.

This is a psychosomatic cough that has absolutely nothing to do with panic attacks and everything to do with memories of blood caught in his lungs. It’s a gut wrenching new tic they’ve all started to notice this past year or so, how Spike will cough if he’s overwhelmed, just once or twice, like he’s reassuring himself he can breathe freely.

The first time it happened, during a games night at the Braddock house, Ed made a beeline for him, hands on either side of Spike’s face, and they had _two_ teary-eyed basket cases on their hands. It took over fifteen minutes just to deescalate them both enough to stop shaking.

Memories and their saber tips are not always kind, and this is one of those times.

Spike turns steadily red, a flushed ball of stress and tears. He coughs again, which cracks something inside of Greg, that helpless feeling of a parent trying to rescue a child from himself.

Greg does the only thing he can think of, the one thing he’s been wanting to do since this all started.

He goes slower than he did with Dean, coiling his arms around Spike and pulling him in for a full body hug, his arms pliable yet firm where they’ve stacked around his spine. Spike still has a hand sandwiched between them where it rests on Greg’s chest.

Each breath is short, but the longer Spike rests his forehead on Greg’s shoulder, the deeper they get. Great, echoing gusts of air fill his frazzled lungs. The palm on Greg’s chest suddenly goes lax, fingers spreading into a slender paw that is feeling Greg’s heartbeat now rather than his breathing pattern.

He is also flushed, alive, and about as graceful as a newborn deer.

Spike has none of Dean’s inhibitions and he noses further into the embrace without shame, not caring who may or may not be watching. There really isn’t anyone, not this close to the bomb site, with everything evacuated and deserted.

“You good?”

Spike nods. “Will Dean get fired over this?”

“Mmm…” Greg waits for Spike to make the first move and only steps back when he does. He wipes some of the wetness away from Spike's cheek with his thumbs. “Probably not.”

“Are you going to put in a good word for him?”

Greg scoffs. “Nepotism isn’t right and Dean will bear whatever consequences they deem fit for his choices. But if it makes you feel better, he’ll probably just be on probation for leaving his post when disobeying a direct order from Ed.”

“I can’t believe today happened.” Spike flops onto the hood of the car, on his back and arms spread. One boot is propped up on the bumper. “Like, this is the _weirdest thing_ , Greg, to have him out in the field with us. Last week he was arguing with me over who should play Hans Gruber if they remake _Die Hard_ and now he’s got a gun strapped to his belt.”

Greg rumbles an amused sound, perching next to Spike and glancing over his shoulder so he can see his face. Spike blinks up at the sky, as if passing clouds hold all the answers.

Then he ticks a few fingers on his leg. “I felt like that kangaroo on my first day, you know.”

Greg doesn’t know, and is so thrown by this statement that he frowns down at Spike. Is he lightheaded again?

Spike shakes his head, lost in a world of images from almost ten years ago. “She was writhing so hard, so _angry_ , and all I could think while defusing the trip wire was that I felt the same way. She let out a yipping cry and I thought, ‘you and me both.’ You were all so open and loving and…”

“And we scared you,” Greg finishes.

“Yeah!” Spike raises one forearm, like a Shakespearean actor in a soliloquy. “I had just joined this team—by the skin of my teeth, mind you—and yet none of you were mean or cruel or cold shouldered with me. You patted my back and ruffled my hair, even when I made mistakes. You accepted me as part of the unit without any bitterness. I’d never had that before.”

The quiet admission is not a novelty, no stunning new revelation Greg has never heard before. But the vulnerable, throbbing note in Spike’s voice is.

“I mean, granted, they pranked you to death.”

Spike smiles at the reminder. “If you dig back far enough in my locker, I think there’s still some of Wordy’s shaving cream in the walls.”

Greg chuckles and the pair glow for a moment. Spike has always seemed to be a light source in and of himself, at least to Greg, how he’s a livewire freed from its mooring—zapping, hissing, sparking with life and ideas.

“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but…” Greg stares out over the empty street, a bizarre sight for the middle of the day in downtown Toronto. “I visited that kangaroo at the zoo exhibit, after we helped get her tranquilized and in her carrier.”

Spike looks surprised by this news. “You did? Why?”

“Because I wanted to understand why she ran in the first place—and why you were so dodgy with your statement after the fact.”

There’s a hint of rosiness high up on Spike’s cheeks, and Greg’s heart soars to see it.

The tech sniffs. “You figured it out, huh?”

“Didn’t I promise you that story would make sense by the end of today?”

Spike avoids his eyes, voice quiet. “I’ll never forget watching that poor thing wriggle around, trying to kick me, fighting for all she was worth. She was furious with me, for getting close and, I’ll bet, blaming me—a human—for the pickle she’d landed herself in. The wires and the trap. One second I was applying pressure to the sensors with a sand bag and then I looked up at her…”

Spike trails off, absorbed in memory and the truth of today circling around his ears. Greg doesn’t need him to finish, for he went to the zoo and with one sweep of his eyes, understood the whole thing.

“She was a mother,” says Greg for him. “A new mother, judging by the baby’s size. Even the zoo didn’t realize she’d been pregnant. She escaped a week prior to have her baby in a quieter place, though unfortunately she chose a military training site.”

With a flick of his head, Spike is back in the present. “I looked up and a little head, barely five days old, had poked out of her stomach pouch, closed eyes and all. Like a hairless kidney bean. The mother would have tried to kill or maim me, if she’d been free.”

“Most likely.” Greg jostles Spike’s limp knee. “She was trying to protect him. She thought that was a life or death situation.”

“It was,” Spike says firmly, and he’s not talking about that day at all. “They both could have died if the bomb went off.”

Greg lowers his tone. He leans in close, making sure Spike doesn’t zone out for his next words. “But you saved him, both times.”

A silence follows this, Spike’s brain an almost audible mess of gears whirring around while trying to process the thought. Trying to parse out if this is strictly true in the way he needs it to be.

Because today could happen again. There _will_ be calls where Dean is the responding officer and Spike needs to learn how to live with that, to separate brother from colleague.

“Was it terrifying for you too the first time I did something clever and hasty like this?” he asks.

“Absolutely.” Greg replies without a second’s hesitation. “You nearly gave me a stroke those first few bomb calls.”

 _It still petrifies me when you go out alone_. But Greg doesn’t say this, for he—sort of—learned how to separate son from bomb expert years ago. He never really will and that’s okay too, so long as he treats Spike the way he needs, to do his job the best he can.

“He’ll always be your little brother.” Greg tries to relay this wisdom and feels inadequate. “But you need to trust that he’s ready. To protect him by respecting him.”

A mutinous expression pinches the dimples around Spike’s mouth and folds his brow. “There’s still time to swaddle him in bubble wrap and hide him away until he’s fifty.”

That surprises a bark of laughter out of Greg. “Don’t tempt me.”

“And it’s not a baby—newborn kangaroos are called joeys.”

Greg’s eyes spark. “Of course you know that.”

“I actually…looked it up after my first day. And if this is how you felt, then I’m sorry I ever put you though it.”

“Everything comes full circles in the end. It always does.” Greg smiles down at him, gut frothy with affection. “I would have worried no matter what your first call entailed. Even a cat stuck up a tree.”

Spike blinks at him. He doesn’t take the humour bait, gaze heavy on Greg, infused with the shiny, hybrid glint of love and understanding. “I get that now.”

Greg knows there will be an informal debrief later tonight, probably when both boys end up on his couch, crying and watching yet another episode in their _Murder, She Wrote_ marathon. Tangled around each other with Spike shaking some more for good measure.

But right now, it’s balanced. They can both breathe and they’re going to be alright.

Jules trundles over to stand over Spike too. “What, did someone finally take out your batteries, Spike? You look like a dud toy on Christmas morning.”

“I am one with the car,” says Spike, hand circling the hood. “And the car is one with me. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.”

Ed joins this huddle and eyes them, dubious. He toes at Spike’s boot, the one dangling onto the pavement. “You’re smudging my paint job.”

“‘Wax on…wax off.’”

Spike is putty, drained. Ed must see this because he doesn’t push it or quip back. Today has been hard on all of them and Greg adds a few more place settings to his mental supper list.

“I love you guys,” says Spike, drunk with the after exhaustion of a panic attack and adrenaline crash. “Even if you are super overbearing sometimes.”

Jules’ jaw drops. “Overbearing? Did you, the man who broke the sound barrier driving illegally to get us here, just call _us_ overbearing? Help me out here, Ed!”

Ed’s lips twitch. “I followed Dean at work this morning for three hours. I have no grounds to stand on.”

“Sorry, no help here.” Greg exchanges a knowing look with Ed. “I did a full background check profile on Milkos before Dean even got the job.”

Jules shakes her head. “Unbelievable. I work with a team of mother hens—you’re all hopeless.”

By hopeless she means the best, especially when she knuckles Ed’s shoulder and then takes Spike’s hand. The digits must be cold because she rubs them briskly between her own. Jules is no better in the smothering department than they are but none of them call her out on it. The casual contact seems to reassure her that he’s in one piece.

“We love you too, Spike,” says Ed, toeing the boot again. “Even if Dean spilled the secret that you have terrible aim.”

“I don’t have terrible aim!” Spike flails his free hand. “I was trying not to hit him!”

Greg grins at Ed’s mischievous expression. “Oh, I don’t know, figlio. When was the last time you won a team softball game?”

“Never, because I’d never played until a year ago!”

“Does that explain the time you missed throwing tear gas into the window?” Jules goads.

Spike sits up he’s so perturbed. “That was during a _blizzard_! I could barely see the shooter’s house, let alone the window!”

It’s an echo of his first day, the rookie teased and prodded until it set his head on straight. Just like right now.

“You ready to go?” asks Ed. He can't seem to resist stroking Spike's hair, just for a moment. His fingers get tangled in the top locks and he starts again. “We’ll be joining Milkos and Dean for those statements.”

Spike looks one last time around the whole street, no rubble or fires. Another habit he always does, after every successful call, just admiring his handiwork and the unmarred tableau.

He nods, weight sloughed off his shoulders. “Yeah, we’re good.”

The kids file away, leaving Ed and Greg standing there side by side. It’s a piercing taste of what used to be, too trenchant and blinding for nostalgia, and if Greg closes his eyes, holding his breath just right, he can imagine himself in uniform. Leg fine. Out in the world to help.

Ed shuffles and the brush of his SRU sweater on Greg’s wrist makes him smile. He opens his eyes to see it reflected on Ed. His friend, his dear heart brother, might just be shaking with relief a tiny bit himself, though it’s better hidden under professional shields.

“Are you ever going to tell him?” Ed asks after a beat.

“What?”

“Don’t you ‘what’ me.” Ed finally releases that laugh, wavering with the day’s emotions. “You convinced the zoo to let you name that baby, on the national scientific registry and everything.”

They watch Jules and Spike rock-paper-scissors for who gets to drive back. Jules wins.

“What can I say?” Greg’s eyes burn and realizes there’s no place he’d rather be than right here, the way he is now—in the context he lives in now. He’s proud that they can represent all he’s taught them, out in the world to save it. “The joey just looked like a ‘Spike’ to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written in under a week, December 29 - January 4.


End file.
